


The Discipline of Riding

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [10]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-22
Updated: 2007-08-22
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Between lessons, one should always practise.





	The Discipline of Riding

**Author's Note:**

> There's nothing like a certain man in a riding kit…. 
> 
> Thanks to [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/)**just_dreamsome** for the horse-riding research on my behalf. (Oh, and Uncle Nick is back, peripherally of course.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I am sure Helen Fielding would blanch if she knew. I am also sure she would _not_ approve.

For as many things London had going for it as a city—art, culture, history, and gorgeous green parks—there was nothing there that could rival spring in the country when it came to atmosphere. Bridget had been reluctant at first to spend the Easter holiday in Grafton Underwood. For Christmas they had nearly started a family feud when she and Mark had decided to stay at the Darcys'. When Mark advised her they were invited again to stay with his parents for Easter, her first reaction was to flee to France, Spain, or a some other neighbouring continental country for amnesty. She was hedging on making a decision when her mother advised her she and her father were heading north to tour the lakes for Easter, so any potential conflict was thereby averted.

It certainly didn't hurt that the Darcys' stately home made their own London townhouse look like a studio flat by comparison, and standing outside overlooking the park to the rear of the house, Bridget felt like royalty even though she was only doing something as mundane as drinking her morning coffee.

"Good morning," came a familiar voice as a gentle hand slipped about her waist. "I trust you slept well?"

She closed her eyes and smiled as Mark planted a kiss at her temple. "Very well indeed." They had arrived the previous evening after dark, having set out just after dinner from the busy bustle of London, cursing at traffic for almost the entire drive; to wake to this sort of beauty was to be transported as if by magic to another era, to another world, to a dream.

He had one arm around her, and one hand cradling his own coffee. "Never get tired of this view," he said quietly. She looked up to him to find him looking down to her. She grinned and reached up to kiss him.

"I thought the honeymoon was over months ago," sounded a voice from behind them. They turned to see Mark's uncle Nick standing at the patio door, a wry but amused expression on his face.

"Good morning, Uncle Nick," said Bridget, feeling herself involuntarily blushing.

"Just wanted to let you know that I've made breakfast if you're hungry."

They followed Nick into the kitchen, where Malcolm and Elaine were already seated. "Good morning, son… and daughter," said Malcolm with a smile as he looked to Bridget. "Fine spring morning. Very fine indeed. Have a muffin." He pointed to a huge plate of various muffins; Bridget reached over and grabbed a chocolate chip one. It was still warm. She resigned herself to putting on a stone over the weekend.

"Hope everything was comfortable for the both of you last night," piped up Mark's mother, sipping daintily at her tea and taking a bite of what appeared to be a blueberry muffin. When had Nick done all of this baking?

"Very comfortable," said Mark. He'd chosen chocolate chip as well, which made her grin. _I am a very bad influence_ , she thought.

"Have plans for today?" Malcolm asked. Up to that point Bridget figured she'd just loll about and do not much of anything. "Fancy coming out for a ride this morning?"

She'd frankly had enough of driving, but asked anyway, "Where to? In whose car?"

To her surprise the elders all started to chuckle, and she was bewildered as to why.

Nick explained: "Horses, Bridget. Horses."

She had forgotten about the horses, the Admiral's newest passion, and about how badly she'd wanted to take a ride over the Christmas holidays. She'd agreed when Mark insisted that he give her a lesson or two to satisfy his concern that she could handle herself on horseback, but he had refused to do it at that time with the snow and the ice covering the grounds. He had never had the chance to give her those lessons as they had not yet been back for an extended stay in the country since then, but she was confident that he was being overly protective and the lessons were optional. She brightened. "That sounds like a lovely—"

"Not now, Dad," interrupted Mark curtly. She glanced over to Mark, who suddenly seemed to find his muffin exceedingly interesting.

"Mark," she began. She did not want to have a row in front of his parents, but she also did not want them to think he routinely went around making executive decisions for the both of them, especially not in front of Uncle Nick. "I'll be fine."

He raised his eyes to meet hers. "I'd prefer to… have a private ride with you."

The man was a natural-born diplomat. She watched Elaine's eyes soften—had he ever displayed such blatant devotion to his first wife in front of his parents?—and Malcolm start to nod in agreement. "Of course, son, of course. Plus you have nothing proper to ride in, have you, Bridget?"

"I haven't, actually."

"That settles it," Malcolm said with a blustering definitiveness. "After breakfast, Mark, go on and take your wife out for a proper riding outfit. Then you can take her out for a ride this afternoon."

Bridget witnessed the muscles in his jaw tense up, telling her he was not exactly thrilled with the idea, but he did not like to contradict his father. She slipped her hand along his forearm and when he turned to look at her, she smiled. She was fully aware of the effect this tended to have on him, and this time was no different, because he blinked, relaxed and returned the smile in full.

"All right. A little shopping is in order."

When Mark's parents departed from the table, Nick remained to finish his crossword as Mark and she continued eating their muffins. After sitting in silence for some minutes, Nick asked, not looking up from the paper, "Bridget doesn't ride, does she?"

She felt indignant regardless of the fact that he was right because he was speaking as if she weren't even there. Mark said nothing.

"In America," Nick continued, "they refer to that as 'pleading the Fifth'."

………

"Bridget. For the third time, you're holding the reins in the wrong hand."

 _Honestly_ , she thought. How could she be expected to concentrate on riding when faced with how devastatingly sexy Mark looked in his riding outfit? The form-fitting khaki breeches, the tall leather riding boots, the tailored knit shirt… and the way he was striding around the horse she was currently perched on with a riding crop in his hand made her want to ditch the riding lessons altogether and ravage him up against the stable wall. To add to her misery there seemed to be little point to this lesson. After all, who needed lessons for getting on a horse, sitting in a saddle and holding reins?

However, to satisfy Mark's whim in order to get to the actual riding, she complied and resolved to pay better attention.

"Good, good. Now curl the reins like so, turn your hand around. Thumb on top." He put his hand on her abdomen, urging her to move back in the saddle. "Sit all the way back and bring your knees here." He hooked his fingers beneath her knee and pulled it up. "Your feet must be in line with your shoulders."

Putting aside for the moment what his continued touches were doing to her, it was a truly awkward and uncomfortable way to sit. She couldn't imagine having to hold this posture while the horse was actually moving.

"You'll be tempted to grip with your knees or move your legs forward to keep your balance when the horse starts to move."

"I shouldn't?" she asked stupidly.

"No. Maintain your posture, straight but not stiff. If you ever find you start to slip whilst riding, slow down and readjust yourself or you'll just make it harder for both you and the horse. Now. Do you think you're ready to try a slow walk?"

She nodded.

"Okay. Squeeze gently with your lower legs."

She did. The horse began slowly walking, and Mark walked alongside. "Now, you'll want to move your right hand to match the way the horse's head is moving so that you don't impede her motion. Stay sitting straight." She felt his hand tap at her lower back and she sat up from a slight slouch she hadn't realised she'd slipped into. "Keep your knees up, feet flexed. Good. Good."

They all walked for a little bit longer before Mark continued. "Now to get her to stop, stiffen your back, squeeze your legs again, and pull back very gently once on the reins." She did as asked, and like magic the horse stopped walking. "You've done very well," he said as she looked down to him. The expression on his face reaffirmed that he was indeed proud of her, and she could not hold in a broad smile.

"Now what?"

He furrowed his brow. "Now we go back inside, have a shower to clean the smell of the stable from ourselves, launder our riding gear…"

"Oh," she blurted stupidly. "I thought there'd be more to the lesson."

"I think that's enough for today. Well. Aside from dismounting." He grinned.

"How am I going to go riding with you this weekend if you've only shown me how to get on the horse and walk it in a straight line?"

"We can have another lesson tomorrow and can come back to the country every couple of weeks for more. We can't move too quickly. You need time to develop muscle memory before we start racing you around the park and jumping hedges."

"I don't expect to be racing and jumping to go for a ride with you… maybe just one little bit more, something a little faster than walking?"

Mark looked thoughtful. "We could try a trot."

"Yes, yes, a trot," she agreed eagerly.

"All right. Now where the walk is a four-step gait, the trot's two-step, which means she'll be moving her legs in diagonal pairs. Her head won't be moving like it does when she walks so you can keep your hand still. _Bridget!_ " He startled her by tapping her firmly on the rear with the end of the riding crop. "Keep your posture."

She straightened up, secretly loving the strict, authoritative mode he'd slipped into.

"Now, don't do this until I'm on my horse," he said, "but in order to get her to trot, you'll do the same as for the walk, except more firmly. You may also need to urge her with a gentle kick with your heels." He went over to where the second horse was waiting and lithely slipped into his saddle and into proper form as if he'd been riding since birth— _which_ , she thought, _he probably had_.

Almost imperceptibly he moved his legs and the horse sauntered forward. "There are two ways to ride a trotting horse: sitting and rising."

"Do you mean standing?"

"No. Rising. When one pair of the horse's legs is on the ground, you rise up. When the other meets the ground, you sit again."

"That seems very tiring. Stand, sit, stand, sit…"

"You don't rise very far from the saddle, and don't use your whole leg," he said with a smirk. "It's just your upper leg. Your lower leg shouldn't move."

"How do you only move your upper leg?" she asked, baffled.

"You move your hips forward." Her eyebrows surely raised beyond her hairline. Pelvic thrusting as a part of establishment horse riding? She always knew those aristocrats were pervs at heart. "Watch me."

Gently he urged the horse into a trot, circling around her and giving her and her mount a wide berth, and she observed the slight motion of his hips that frankly made her feel a little faint. In so many ways it explained so much about his talents behind closed doors. Suddenly he stopped. "You see? I'm not actually moving all that much. It's very controlled. It takes a lot of practise but once you've been doing it a while it's more comfortable for both rider and horse." He was grinning again. "Sitting while a horse is trotting can be a little rough on one's arse." 

She opened her mouth to speak, found her lips inexplicably dry, so she licked them. "Okay," was the only remotely verbal thing she could think to say.

"Do you want to give it a go?"

"Yes," she said automatically.

"Okay. Posture," he reminded, tapping her thigh again with the crop. "Now: squeeze your lower legs more tightly than you did for the walk." She did so and the horse started to walk again. "Kick her gently with your heels," Mark called as he trotted past her. She did and her horse erupted into a stuttering forward motion. She felt like a human pile driver—she was going to have to learn this rising business and quickly.

"Excellent, Bridge; don't forget to keep your posture," he called to her, lazily rising as he trotted along up next to her. "You're doing great." Her smile must have either looked uneasy or completely forced because he added, " _Really_. Now gently pull on the left rein and right leg and we'll circle back to the stable. You remember how to stop, right?"

She nodded, though she wasn't actually sure she did. As they approached the stable, she saw Mark pull gently back on his mount's reins, so she did the same, remembering also to squeeze her legs again.

"Now for the dismount." He slipped his feet out of the stirrups, transferred the reins to his left hand, then leaned forward, swung his right leg over the horse's end then dropped both feet to the ground.

Suddenly the earth seemed very far below her. "Can you talk me through it?"

He did as she asked and as she dropped down to the ground, she felt his hand on her hip to guide her down. As she turned around, he reached to loosen the chin strap of her riding helmet and smiled.

"You're a good student," he said matter-of-factly, brushing hair from her face. He had the lightest sheen of perspiration on his face and throat, his hair was windblown, and he was still regaining control of his breath. She felt her own breath go a little ragged.

Regaining her sense of the present, she said in a teasing tone, "You sound like you didn't think I would be." 

He shrugged, and with his non-answer Bridget could not help but think of Uncle Nick's comment over breakfast. "Why don't you head to the house while I take care of the horses?"

"I don't mind waiting. Or helping," she said. As he grabbed one set of reins in each hand and lead the horses back to their stalls, she thought perhaps she should have gone back after all because watching him take off the saddles and bridles, giving the horses a quick brush and a treat, she could only feel a renewed surge of absolute, total desire.

She realised she must have been staring practically to the point of drooling because he approached with a somewhat disconcerting (and, she feared, knowing) smile on his face. "Given my hands a good once over." His hands were so clean his nails were practically white. "All set?"

She stood, nodding, slipping her riding gloves off of her hands. He slipped his left arm about her shoulders and directed her towards the house. Her backside felt incredibly tender, and absently she reached back and put a hand on her rear. She was going to pay for that trot later.

She felt his hand slide down to cover her own. "You know," he said, "you wear a riding kit exceedingly well." A lopsided smirk invaded the corner of her mouth as he continued. "Tight little leggings, knee-high boots, closely tailored shirt…." He squeezed his hand gently before pulling it up to her waist again. "Exceedingly well," he repeated huskily.

Never in her life had she been so grateful for the size of that house, because they were able to escape up to their room without running into a single soul. Her helmet was off and the door was barely latched before he was up behind her, hands on her hips and running along her outer thighs before kissing her exposed throat. "Mark, I'm a mess," she protested feebly, actually not caring at all about the layer of grime on her skin with the way his teeth were grazing her neck.

He pulled her up against him and it was immediately apparent that he didn't care either. His fingers found the zip on her right hip and pulled it open, then slid down into her jodhpurs. "A little dirt never hurt anyone, love," he said close in her ear as his fingertips traversed the edge of her cotton pants, moving downwards with obvious intention. Her knees weakened as his fingers curled between her legs; he seemed unsurprised to find she was ready for his touch, and he took full advantage of that. She fell back against him.

In order to quiet her moans she bit her bottom lip so hard she thought she might draw blood. His left arm encircled her waist, hand reaching up to tease her breast through the knit fabric. Her head lolled back onto his shoulder and he began to whisper encouragement into her ear. The feel of his hot breath drifting over her neck nearly sent her over the edge—

A curt knock right there at a door not two feet from them startled them both so badly they froze in place. "You in there, son?" _Holy Christ alive_ , she thought, _it's Admiral Darcy_. "Have a good ride?"

She fought back a laugh.

When he spoke he clearly had not regained control of his voice, but she supposed it was enough to pass muster with his father. "Very good. We're just about to sh… ower." His voice faltered as she pushed herself back against him. _As if he needed reminding_ , she thought wickedly.

"Right, good. Dinner's at six," came the reply. She could hear his footsteps retreating down the hall, and she could not help but giggle, considering their current position.

"Bridget," he said darkly, his fingers retreating, inching back up her abdomen.

She then turned around just enough to press a kiss into his lips before any verbal reprimand could escape them. Close call apparently forgotten, she broke away from kissing him and groaned as he continued his ministrations in earnest.

When his teeth took her earlobe gently between them she felt herself utterly lose control, collapsing back against him as she suddenly came with a strength she could barely believe. She wasn't entirely sure but she thought his touch had become even more intense after the near-discovery. Attempting to breathe normally again, she stood up as straight as she could and turned to face him. "That was not fair," she managed.

"You'll get your turn," he said, backing up a step with a smirk, reaching for the button at his hip. She hadn't realised quite until that moment exactly how tightly fitting his breeches were.

"Oh no," she said, striding forward, undoing the button and the zipper for him, tugging the trousers and the smalls beneath down enough to suit her purposes.

"Bridget," he whispered as she took him in hand, "what about my boots?"

"It won't do to practise rising without your boots on," she advised, walking him backwards towards the bed. When they got closer to it she pushed upon his chest and he landed upon his arse on the mattress.

She turned away from him and lifted up her foot, tossing a look back over her shoulder indicating he should pull off her own boots. When they were both off and tossed to the side of the bed, she shimmied her tight jodhpurs and cotton underpants down over her hips and onto the floor. She would have liked to keep her own boots on but it wouldn't have afforded her the freedom of movement she required. He reached out to touch her but she gave his fingers a light slap. "My turn," she said.

She turned again, then climbed up to straddle his lap. She reached down to kiss him, running her hands over the fabric covering his shoulders, down over his chest, to his waist and finally to grab him firmly again. He gasped and was unable to resist grasping her hips, pulling her forward. "Patience," she whispered huskily. 

"Easy for you to say," he muttered.

She thrust her hips forward, brushing against him with her inner thigh. 

"Bridget."

"I'm working on my rising technique."

She did it again, this time brushing a little higher on her leg.

"Dammit, Bridget," he said, veritably shaking.

"Do you think I'm ready to ride?" she asked in her best put-on innocent tone, one hand stroking his cheek, the other stroking down below.

"Fuck yes," he breathed.

She had always found his use of vulgarity extremely sexy; she knew from experience it meant he was aroused beyond all rational sense. She was unable to bear torturing him any longer, so guiding him with her hand, she descended upon him and he groaned, throwing his head back, closing his eyes.

She reached back and grabbed his wrists, placing his hands upon her thighs before placing her hands on his shoulders and pushing him back against the mattress. She kissed him again, her hair loose from its ponytail and hanging down into his face, then ran her hands down over his chest and torso as she arched her back and sat up again.

Carefully she concentrated very hard on moving her hips only with her upper legs, over and over again as if she were riding a horse intent on a particularly brisk jog. The effect it had was exactly as she had desired. She watched his fingers whiten as they gripped the linens, his chin raised to the ceiling, bucking his body up to try to meet her downward movements. The gratification was not completely one-sided; she felt her own stimulation quite acutely, and struggled to keep upright, holding her own release at bay. Suddenly his hands were on her knees, pressing down to try to hold on to her, and she then felt the unmistakable quiver that told her he'd come. Her restraint came crashing down and her hands went to cover his, seizing them tightly as she arched back and let the waves of pleasure overtake her. She was careful to keep her cries as quiet as he'd kept his. They were afforded their privacy in this room but it would have been most embarrassing to face Mark's family after a particularly vocal shag.

All was still after their culmination except for their laboured breathing as she crawled forward to lie upon the knit of his shirt, snuggling in close to his neck. As she did so she felt his arms come up and around her, his nose pressing into her hairline.

His only comment after many silent moments of basking in the afterglow was to be heard as a low whisper: "I think you've perfected your technique."

………

"The fresh air seems to have done you a world of good—you look positively _radiant_ ," said Elaine Darcy as Bridget gingerly took her seat at the dinner table.

"Absolutely," she said; with great effort she avoided looking at Mark lest she burst into a giggle.

"Did you enjoy your ride?" piped in Malcolm. She heard Mark sputter on his wine.

"Yes," said Bridget, not missing a beat. "A very gentle mount, indeed."

"Glad to hear. I've really found riding to be _quite_ therapeutic," continued Mark's father.

"So what do we have planned for tomorrow, Mother?" Mark abruptly asked Elaine.

"Oh, I don't know, exchange of eggs in the morning, a nice early dinner—lamb was what you planned, right, Nick?" queried Elaine.

He nodded. "Mint sauce, potatoes, green peas. Found some nice fresh pods in town."

"Sounds fantastic," said Bridget, daring at last to look across the table to her husband. She saw the flush of colour just retreating under the collar of his light cotton jumper as he focused intently on his meal. She also caught Elaine, seated next to her son, looking down in a similar fashion to her own meal, only she was undeniably smirking.

Bridget wondered if anyone would notice if she crawled under the table to hide.

"I was thinking of taking a walk about the park after we've had sufficient time to digest," said Nick, "if anyone's interested in joining me."

"I'd love to," said Bridget, "but my bottom's a bit sore from today."

She meant it completely and perfectly innocently, but she watched as Mark flushed anew.

………

It was a beautiful spring evening, and in lieu of taking the suggested walk, the five of them decided to sit out on the patio overlooking the back park with coffee and biscuits and simply enjoy the peace and beauty of twilight in the country. Nick departed when it became too dark to see his crossword, and Mark's parents retired early as was their habit. As darkness descended and the stars emerged like pinpricks of light through the velvet-black night sky, still seated on the two-person patio chaise, Bridget leaned her head back on Mark's shoulder, and he in turn leaned his cheek against her temple. A cool breeze raced over the exposed skin of her arm, raising gooseflesh. Mark squeezed her more tightly in reflex.

"Want to go inside?" he asked quietly in her ear.

"No," she said, closing her eyes, another breeze passing across her face. "Not yet. It's a perfect night, with the clear, starry sky, the moonlight on the trees, the solitude…"

"No." He reached for her chin and turned her face to kiss her gently on the lips. As he pulled back again, he said, "Now it's perfect."

She could not help but smile as she snuggled up to him again. She thanked the stars hanging in the vast sky above for him, because surely at least some of them were her lucky ones.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> For my non-American readers, an explanation of [pleading (or taking) the Fifth](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pleading_the_fifth): _…the act of refusing to testify under oath in a court of law or any other tribunal (such as a Congressional committee) on the ground that the answers that would be given could be used as evidence against the witness to convict him or her of a criminal offense_. This protection against compulsory self-incrimination is afforded by [the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fifth_Amendment_to_the_United_States_Constitution). 
> 
> Also, Wrotham Park, aka Admiral & Mrs Darcy's stately mansion: <http://www.wrothampark.com>


End file.
